Geometric
by LostCompass
Summary: Born from a subconscious wish. Punishment. That's a tall order. But the helmet gives him an extra five inches. An obsession with justice helps too.
1. The Executioner Dusts Off His Duty

Don't own Silent Hill or anything to do with its franchise.

* * *

It's been a long time.

He sits upon the massive wooden sign, old as the town itself. Weathered and worn, paint chipped and faded, but the words were carved to last.

Welcome to Silent Hill.

He kicks his heels against the sign, looking up at the sky. Gray, cloudy, overcast- always the same. But... that's not true. Sometimes he can't see the sky. Sometimes, all he can see is fog.

He hops down from the sign onto the road, pavement cracking below his tattered boots.

Twenty years. It's been twenty years since he was born. Or... maybe more. Maybe less. He doesn't really care. Why should it? He hasn't changed at all since that day.

That day that, deep down, he would hate forever.

The day James Sunderland stepped foot into Silent Hill. The day it all changed.

What was it like, being born from the sheer force of emotion? Of sexual tension? Of self loathing? He still can't describe it. He's not sure if he could. Ever could.

Like the earth cracking open and breathing fire into a frozen sky? Like a bicycle, overwhelmed with joy, as someone learns how to ride it? Like a tree, whose boughs are used to built a warm home?

It didn't make sense then. It probably never would.

His breath misted in the cold air as he walked back into the sleepy town. The dead town. He rubs his gloved hands together for warmth- out of instinct, maybe. He doesn't feel the cold. Not the way people do, anyway. He can feel a cold shoulder or an icy glare, but not a chilly breeze. He didn't know whether to be thankful for that or not.

This town. Why did he stay? Did he expect more to come? What was he, a chopping block or something? A guillotine? A noose patiently swinging in the breeze? Bullshit. His sense of justice was overwhelming, but it wasn't a ball and chain.

Not a ball and chain...

He walks along the sidewalk, mud-colored old boots loud in the silence, loose fraying laces flying with every step. Out of habit, if anything. No cars in sight, just heaps of rusted metal with melted wheels here and there. He picks at the fraying threads in his rough, fingerless gloves. Tugs the dirty bandages around his wrists a little tighter.

Any day now. Any day.

He's alone. There's no one else. Sometimes, whenever someone was close to the town, he'd see their emotions begin to solidify into... things. Not alive, but definately not dead. Animated. Shuffling, crippled messes of flesh. Usually, they'd disappear into the mist as soon as they came- no one wanted to dally about Silent Hill for long. Bad vibes.

He stops, leaning on a rusted parking meter, pole warping slightly beneath his weight. He looks left, right, swinging the massive metal helmet on his head around like it weighed nothing. Took some getting used to, at first. Kept bumping into things, banging his head on doorframes. A real bitch. But he got the hang of it.

He knew that place like the back of his hand. He had nothing better to do. Sometimes he'd draw stick figures with crayons he found at the elementary school- all with triangular heads, of course- or sometimes he'd try his hand at bowling and end up taking the back wall out of the alley, or sometimes he'd go down to the tackle shop and sit on the dock, waiting for something to bite. He was bored. Didn't want to believe he was bored, but he was.

He didn't really get it. People liked fun. That much, he understood. Why they liked fun... he didn't know. Fun was kind of depressing to him. I mean, why bother enjoying yourself if it would end? That'd just make all other times miserable. Made no sense to him.

He would go to the library from time to time. He had read every book in there... ten times at the least, both forward and backwards. Seemed like a waste of time to him. Sitting around, writing about things when you could be doing things. People must like writing, he had pondered. War, money, crime, it's like it was a little outlet for all that sin.

Sin...

He clenches his strong fingers into fists, knuckles cracking from disuse. Maybe that's why he stayed. Because the idea of another sinner... was just too good to pass up.

Not a satisfying life. But it was the only one he had. Not like he could die, or anything.

Or maybe he could, he pondered to himself as he rolled a few shopping carts down a hill near a grocery store, watching with boredom as they flopped onto their sides and skidded to a stop in a big pile. Like a tangle of metal spiders arguing over who had the best web. Could he die? This was a point of interest for him. A point he wasn't _that_ interested in, but... still a point.

So he brushed his dusty hands off on his dusty leather pants and walked back to the sign. Welcome to Silent Hill. Maybe he should've taken the sign down. Maybe people would've stopped coming. Save a lot of trouble.

Too late for that now. He stands at the threshold of the sleepy town- the dead town- and scratches at his helmet, getting rust under his rough nails and not feeling a thing. Another useless habit. Stupid James.

What's out there? He's shaking a little, and not from being shirtless. Is this excitement? It's not the same feeling he gets when he senses sin- this one... is just pure excitement. Not that weird combination of dread and anger and Devil's advocate... ness.

He takes one deep breath of stale, foggy air, and takes one long step down the road.

Suddenly, he feels... different.

He looks back at the sign. Still there. If he wanted, he could go back. They probably had crayons out there if he ever wanted to draw stick figures again. He doesn't have anything to lose.

Squaring his muscular broad shoulders, he begins steadily walking towards whatever sinners are out there. The sense of justice is too strong, now. Like an oversized rabbit to a sinful carrot. Now... now, he belongs to himself. Not James. Not the town. Not the cult. No one.

Himself.

Maybe...

He looks up at the sky. Overcast... but it seems to be lightening up, just a little.

Maybe, on the outside, he'd finally work up the courage to look at a mirror. Without the helmet.

Just once.


	2. Morning Chill

It's only when Pyramid Head had been walking for five miles did he realize he had forgotten his knife.

He stops, dragging a calloused hand down the front of his helmet in irritation, the hollow grating sound loud in the morning silence. He looked over his shoulder into the dense fog.

Well, it's not like he cared that much. He didn't even know why he bothered to carry the damn thing around- it was so heavy, his arm would be awfully sore after a single night shift 'round Silent Hill. Didn't help that no matter how many times he wrapped new bandages around the grip, the rough hilt chafed his hands horribly- probably why he couldn't feel anything anymore.

Pyramid Head shrugs to himself, shaking his head ruefully. Not like he could feel in the first place. He rubs his thick thumb into his right palm, trying to loosen up the bruise-colored callouses that have lived under his gloves for such a long time.

Whatever. This is a new start. He doesn't any knife- doesn't need any sort of keepsake from James. No...

He continues walking. The highway- if you could call it that, really just a strip of asphalt with a line in the middle- wasn't in the best of condition. Cracks criss-crossed the face of the road, and Pyramid Head seemed to be kicking up chunks of it with every step. He even found a speed limit sign, buried in weeds; pulling it out of those thorny green fingers, he realized he couldn't even read the sign. Rust has licked the numbers right off.

He dropped it to the side of the road, letting the weeds reclaim their prize.

Rust...

He sighs, cracking his knuckles. Seems like he can't get away from the stuff. Was all he ever saw in Silent Hill- rust, asbestos, dead mold. He was already glad he had left that infernal town- the highway, roughly carved into steep hillside, was bordered on both sides by a thick wood, so thick the trunks disappeared into misty darkness. Deciduous trees, he remembered. Books on climate zones and stuff had always been Pyramid Head's favorite to page through... all those far off places...

A sharp, lone birdcall brings Pyramid Head out of his reverie, and his head snaps left and right, air whistling across the corrugated surface of his helmet. What the hell?

So that's what a birdcall sounds like. A lot... different than he imagined. Not songlike, really. More... desperate.

Like him, really.

* * *

_Probably keep things short like this. Fits his character._


End file.
